The House on Walnut Hills Road
behind the
sheer frill curtains
of our beauty window
the pine trees
fruit birds,
and crick
in the wind
and the shine
Oh!
it whispers, Worshippers!
Grandma and I,
drinking coffeemilk
cracking nuts
under grandpa's face
in the scoutmaster plaque
under grandpa's carved wood
from Surinam
(compressors,
work for an
Ingersoll-Rand
Ohio-Man)
in our Living Room
grandpa's brown wallpaper
grandpa's solemn olive skin
his oxygen breathing
his thinking
his being
and we're worshippers
and cracking nuts
behind our beauty window
where
the pine trees
fruit birds,
and crick
in the wind
and the shine
in the
power-and-glory
forever-and-ever World!
in This House
on Walnut Hills Road.
at 5:30 a.m.
there's enough time
for a sweet spot of sleep
but Cat Hunger
steps
hard
on my head
to urgent purr
on the bed
I drop off but for the
businessy-pawing-sand
shifting-positions
like so many
thoughts
skimming-along
whiskery
corners
in my dream
the Mystery Machine
broke down on the scene
like all the plot implementations,
the same ingredients:
take a bunch of kids
add one fake ghost
a scared dog
like proximates of something
collective characterizations
of superfriends
add secret agents,
or occasional cameos
like the Globe Trotters
cops won't let 'em into town
and give them problems
from the Powers that Be
maybe the Devil-Men
align with the Unitarians
and the other Agents of Evil
like the Will to Power aids
the Forces of Darkness
like peas and carrots
or Bill and Monica
so neat and obvious
until you take off the mask
and was really old
President Bush and his brother, Jeb
and that b*tch, Ms. Harris
who have gotten away
with rigging the elections
if it wasn't for
you darn kids.
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kathy ireland green rusts slowly in mentor, ohio. she has been writing
poetry for several years due to natural and unnatural catastrophes and
discontinuities in the space time continuum.
the house on walnut hills road
damn cat
the mystery machine
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